Spiralling Hayward
by ChopSuiFish
Summary: The Devil's Footsteps E. E. Richardson Remember old Pete, who killed himself in his house on King's hill? This is all about him.
1. I

This is from the point of view of Peter Hayward (in third person), one of the workers at the orphanage in _The Devil's Footsteps_. I know that there are at least a couple differences between the American and English versions (the age of Bryan, for one), so I'm sorry if there are any others I don't know about that are important.

Just in case they changed the name of Peter Hayward, he was the man that lived and died on the haunted house on King's Hill.

Disclaimer: E. E. Richardson rocks all, and he owns the town of Redford, the orphanage, the children, the Dark Man, and, of course, Old Pete. I, however, own the little details in this plot, so there!

Pete yawned, and gazed wearily at the small child standing in front of him, eyes wide in anticipated fear. Jimmy Hooler, eight years old, with the sandy blonde hair and green eyes his mother had had before she died. It was his skin, however, that really got on everyone's nerves. Margaret Hooler, his mother, had run away to London or another big city, and returned with a coloured boy in tow. It was rumoured that the dark father of the boy had passed her a disease, and that had caused her death.

But Pete wasn't worried about catching diseases off little Jimmy. He just wanted to punish him, and get home to his family. "You hit Jane Goodwill?" It wasn't a question.

Jimmy nodded and bit his lip, shaking faintly. "I had not meant to, sir. She was taunting me, sir. She said she would-"

Pete raised a worn hand, and Jimmy saw age-old rivets lining it, from the handle of a stick, a whip, or some other item of torture. He half-saw the dents and shapes that the faces he had hit were imprinted there. "You were warned. Time and again we have heard complaints. We put you into the chamber, but to no avail. We have hit you, by the lord we have punished you in every way we deemed humane."

Jimmy nodded solemnly as Pete spoke, unsure of what this would lead to. Would they really kill him? He had, with the other orphans, seen the other children that had lived in the orphanage buried, in a hidden clearing in the woods, but he had not believed that they had been killed intentionally. Yes, the workers at the orphanage were cruel, but they were not _murderers_, surely?

He was dragged out of his thoughts as Pete grabbed him by the ear, and pulled him to the washing room. Pete gave him no more time for thinking, and ducked him into the cold tub of water.

Pete watched through the water, saw the bubble of air rise as Jimmy gasped for breath, and found only water. He let Jimmy lie there, at the bottom of the tub, and watched solemnly as the bubbles stopped coming, and Jimmy lay limp in his hand. Still he held the boy under, watching, his features contorting.

"Hayward? Sir? I have come to fill the-" Pete turned his head from the tub and saw Anne, a young girl that had just outlived the age of the orphan life, and had been forced to stay at the orphanage because that was the only work she could find.

Pete's eyes bored into hers, watching the disbelief be washed from her eyes by fear, which was, in turn, replaced by a complete sorrow only found on an innocent child that had been told that Santa Claus didn't exist.

"What?" Pete moved his eyes, and saw that she was carrying a large bucket full of water. He got up, leaving the body lie in the water. "Honestly, you stupid child, you did not believe none of the children were killed intentionally? You, who has lived here for so long, and has sent so many of your 'kin' to their graves?" He took a step towards her. "There is, as you can see, water in the tub. Is the girls bath filled?" Anne nodded. "Well, why not take it to the kitchen, see what use they will have for it down there?"

He watched the girl scurry away as fast as she could, water slopping over the sides of the bucket. He would have been amused if he hadn't been so tired. He turned back to the tub, and frowned. Something was out of place. The face. The eyes had been open before, hadn't they? Then he realised.

What had been fear before was now anger.


	2. II

**If anyone is reading this, reviews would be much appreciated. I shall worship the very feet of anyone who cares to review my humble fanfic, even if you just want to shout because I have crappy grammar, spelling, or whatever else. I just want to know if anyone is actually reading this. Pretty please with Lemon-Drops? This is my first story I've actually published, and I'd like to know what people think of it.**

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"Now, all you little orphans should take heed from little Jimmy's- his unfortunate demise." Pete raised his voice threateningly, but it was cracking with lack of sleep and sorrow. Not, of course, sorrow for Jimmy, but sorrow for the fact that his being there was wasting precious time he could be spending with his wife.

He flicked a hand at two ten-year-old boys, who automatically knew what to do. Whenever a boy was summoned at a burial, it came as a shock. They always shook, afraid of slipping and being punished, but it was always known what they had to do. The boys picked up the two spades lying next to the graves, and shovelled the earth back on top of the damp and wrinkled body of Jimmy Hooler.

He waited until the boys had scuttled back to the crowd. "None of you should _ever_ play in bath tubs full of water, lest you meet the same fate as Jimmy. Now, let's all pray for his soul." He eyed the children as they knelt before the graves. He led them in prayer, picking out with his mind the ones murmuring the nursery rhyme instead of praying.

"_One in fire, two in blood_-" The words rang in Pete's head, and he raised his voice to block it out. "_Three in storm and four in flood_." It was just a childish rhyme, that was all. "_Five in anger, six in hate_," He always punished those he caught singing it. It chilled him to the bone. "_Seven Fear and evil eight_." He shook his head, unsure of whether the voices were in his head. "_Nine in Sorrow, Ten in Pain_." His momentary thought of madness was gone, he was sure the children were singing the rhyme instead of the prayer. "_Eleven death, Twelve life again_."

"Silence!" All of the murmuring stopped. There wasn't a sound for what felt like years, the clearing was blanketed in frosty silence. An owl hooted, and he snapped back into action. "When we are praying, you must _all_ pray. Understood?" The children nodded at him. "No foolish rhymes. This is serious, an orphan killing himself in play. It is not to be made fun of, or ridiculed." All of the children watching him pace and spit, spit and pace, all knowing. His voice rose, trying to block out the final, lethal words.

_Thirteen Steps to the Dark Man's Door; Won't be Turning Back no more._

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Finally, once the orphans had been put to bed, Pete could leave. He had wanted to go home all day, but as soon as he stepped through the door, the oppressive atmosphere made him want to be somewhere else, anywhere other than the hellhole he called home. 

"Daddy?" A face appeared at the top of the stairs, and, to Pete's dismay, it took him a while to recognise her. "Why are you home so late? Mother- she has not been well. In the head, I mean. The nurse wanted to speak to you, but she had to leave, she went over an hour ago."

It was his daughter. Lovely little Bessie. She had her mother's blonde hair, slim build and neat features, but her fathers chocolate brown eyes, soft and innocent. She was only eight, and so impressionable. It wasn't fair for her to have to go through this. She was sweet and kind. What did she ever do to deserve the death of her mother?

_Maybe she didn't do anything. Maybe her pain is your punishment._

Pete pushed away the thought. He smiled at his daughter, his eyes filled with melancholy.

"Daddy? Are you alright?" Bessie ran down the stairs to him, her eyes full of concern. "Daddy?" The worry rose in her voice.

"Yes. I- I am fine."

"I think you should go see Mother. I have not left her side since the nurse left. Was I good, Daddy? Did I do good?"

"Yes, Bessie. You did good." He let out a prolonged and tired breath. He put his coat on the stand, and trudged up the stairs. "Bessie?"

"Yes?"

"I think you should go to bed now. It is very late."

"Okay Daddy." He stood aside and let her pass through to her room before he entered his own.

What had filled the atmosphere in the rest of the house was ten times worse in the bedroom. Heat, sweat, and delusional thoughts swirled in the air around the bed. A bucketful of water and flannels was placed beside a stool, giving false hope. Annabel, his wife, lay on the bed. He could hear her rasping breaths from the other side of the room, clawing at her lungs.

His eyes brimmed with tears. She had once been so beautiful, so mesmerising. Now, caught in her final moments, she was greasy with sweat, caked in blood and vomit, and her eyes, in the few times he saw them open, were red and bleary.

He took a step forwards, despite wanting only to run, to run and never return. Her skin had turned a green tinge. He took another step, suppressing the need to throw up. Her nails were blackened and broken. He took a third step. Bruises covered all of her visible skin. He took the final step, and collapsed onto his knees. Her blonde hair was turning brown with dirt and grime.

"Oh, Annabel!" Pete sobbed into one of her calloused hands. "Why did I let this happen?"

"John?" A thin warbling voice escaped her lips. It didn't sound at all like the woman it came from was supposed to speak.

"It's me, Pete. Your husband." He had been warned that she would turn out like this, but had never thought it could really happen to her, his beautiful wife. She was now delusional, and stuck in the past, but she had once been loud, proud, and absolutely wonderful.

John had been her best friend as a child. He died when she was just eighteen. He had proposed, and gone off to Africa to fight. He never came back.

"John is my husband. At least, he will be. He was such a hero, going off to fight. He did not know. No one found out." She turned to face him, eyes wide. It wasn't her eyes that he gazed into. They were blank, dolls eyes compared to the lively blue diamonds they had once been.

"Found out what?"

"I was pregnant."

This was news to Pete. "Pregnant? What happened to the child?"

"I killed it!" She was in hysterics, thrashing and cursing. "Ma said I had to marry. _You shan't wait for a man forever! You must settle down now._" She paused as she spoke, her voice low, imitating her Mother. "She didn't know. No one did. I didn't want to kill it. I wanted to wait for my John. Look John, our baby. But John never came home, and I got married."

"Who did you marry?"

"A horrible old man called Pete. I chose him because Ma _hated_ him. But Pete died, and I'm all alone, waiting for my John. He'll forgive me for everything, I know he will. He loves me, my Johnny." She sat up in bed, counting her fingers and singing the nursery rhyme, slowly, mournfully, and under her breath.

"How did Pete die?" She continued to sing. "How did Pete die?" He shook her, and she sang louder than before. "Annabel, how did Pete die?" He tried a softer tone, gently rubbing her back."

She turned to face him, her eyes full of terror. "I cannot say."

"Why not? Don't you know?"

"Yes, of course I _know_. That would be silly, if I didn't _know_. But I just cannot say." She lost her playful tone on the last sentence.

"So why can't you say? Are you afraid?" She nodded. "Who of?"

She leant towards him, her words low in a whisper. "Everyone."

**Not the best chapter I've ever written, I wanted to write a little more, but I think that that little bit fits it nicely. Well, if you have read it, please review! You can just say 'Hi' or tell me you read it, and I'd be satisfied! Come on, I'm desperate here! Free cookies and milk to anyone who reviews! Or, if you're not that kind of person, I offer you a thousand jewels, as big and bright as stars, all the colours of the rainbow! No? Urm... I'm kind of running out of ideas here. How about... Oh, just please, review! I'd love you forever!  
**


	3. III

**Yay! I have sorted the next (short) chapter. It's not been too friendly, but that's expected, after I left it to fend for itself for so long.**

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"I'm so sorry, really. I wanted to tell you, but you didn't come home, and-" 

Pete raised his hand to silence the rambling bed-nurse. "I know, it's not your fault." He sighed, and stared blankly at his wife's body, swinging from a rope. The contents of her bladder were dripping from her body to the carpet beneath it, staining the cream fabric darker. In Pete's eyes, it was the dark red of blood.

Truthfully, he was thankful. Even if his wife had recovered, she wouldn't be the same as she had been before. Now, with her hanging by her neck, he could pretend she had died the glamorous and beautiful woman she had once been.

"She'd been… She'd been there for quite some time. You know, before I got here. I didn't want to touch her, I'm sorry. Should I call the police, or someone else?"

Pete looked at her, weariness filling his eyes. The nurse was young, too young to have to deal with dead people and broken families. It wasn't her fault, but still the anger rose in his chest. He was grateful for his wife's death, yes, but he could still be angry with those he blamed.

"Leave." He watched his wife, hypnotic in her dead dance-like movements.

"Are you sure I shouldn't-"

"Now." He turned to face the nurse, glaring. With his bloodshot eyes, squinted in pain and malice, and his face turned purple from goodness-knows-what, he looked like a devil.

The nurse backed off, not turning her back until she reached the stairs. She turned and ran.

"Bessie?" He called out, hoping to God that his daughter hadn't seen the body. "Bessie?" He stepped out of the room, towards the door of his daughter's. He heard a girl, humming from inside. "Bessie, love, answer me."

He pushed the door open, the humming growing louder in his ears, but there was no one there.

"Bessie?" He looked around, sure the humming had come from her room. "Bessie, are you here?"

"_I'm here."_

Pete turned around. The voice had come from his own bedroom. He bit his lip; he hadn't wanted his daughter to see the body of her mother. He stepped back inside, but no one was there.

"Bessie, darling, it isn't good to play games." He looked under the bed, and a giggle met his ears, a breeze running behind him and out through the door, which slammed.

"_You'll never catch me."_

He got up nervously. Bessie wouldn't play games like that on him, but the voice was so familiar, and it was definitely a little girl. What other young girls would be in his house? He walked to the door, and opened it slowly. The house rang with silence.

There was no one there.

Pete walked downstairs, raking his hand through his hair. He was going mad. He had heard of Widowers going mad slowly, but never within five minutes of their wife's death. He went to the kitchen, looking around desperately.

Where was she? The nurse hadn't mentioned Bessie at all, perhaps the nurse hadn't seen her all day, or she was somewhere in the house, maybe Pete hadn't noticed her.

There was a knock on the door.

"Bessie?" Pete turned and walked up the stairs to the hall. The shadow cast on the door was too tall to be Bessie, too shapely. It had long, wavy hair, and as it turned, its profile became visible. A pointed nose, full lips, long lashes. "Annabel? You're dead."

The shadow opened its mouth and Pete heard a musical, mocking laugh. Then the shadow turned to face him once again, raising a slender arm to pull the knocker back.

"_Answer the door Pete, why won't you answer the door?"_

As the words entered his ears, Pete knew who it was. It wasn't Bessie, or any of the orphans. It was Annabel. She'd come back to life. He couldn't let her. She would drive him mad. She had never been perfect. She'd flirted with everyone she knew.

These were the thoughts twirling and twisting in Pete's head, entwining him in their grasp. They pulled him towards the coffee table Annabel had insisted on placing in the hall, made him pick up the silver letter-opener.

He wasn't sure what came first after that; opening of the door or the stabbing. He couldn't even remember opening the door, just the relentless downward motion of the blade, slashing the woman's flesh.

It was only after at least three minutes, the blood gushing over the porch and down the stairs, that Pete stopped. He stood up; knowledge that he'd kept his wife's ghost from visiting him placing a triumphant smile on his lips. It disappeared when he noticed who he had killed.

It wasn't Annabel.

It was because of this that Pete spent the afternoon digging, the sudden rain running down his clothes, pounding the stains out. Everything about the rain made him grateful; it kept people indoors, it made the ground easier to dig in, and, most importantly, it washed him clean.

He hated the clearing. It had a similar feel to his home, the feel of death and decay. But there was a difference, the deaths of those in the clearing were the deaths of the oppressed, and though Annabel hadn't been an oppressor in the way Pete or the other workers were, she was, in some way, the same.

Pete looked down at the bones lying beneath where the woman he had killed was placed. The children's bones rested against the young body of the nurse. Her face was still twisted in shock and fear.

But he knew it wouldn't be long before the worms ate away at her body, leaving only bones. And no one would find her.

After all, no one had found the children, had they?

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**Well, I said it was short. Someone review, I have umbrella stands! A review each, they're very pretty. Anyone? Please?**

Well, see you until next time.  



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